


you know what could use a revolution?

by sapphicish



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/F, Gen, Unresolved Tension, hopping on the hunger games train very late but i do it for alma, of some sort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-27
Updated: 2020-02-27
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:35:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22929565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sapphicish/pseuds/sapphicish
Summary: “You wore an entire birdcage in your hair six years ago.”Effie cuts Alma's hair, and Alma feels something. For once.
Relationships: Alma Coin & Effie Trinket, Alma Coin/Effie Trinket
Comments: 2
Kudos: 34





	you know what could use a revolution?

**Author's Note:**

> very last minute and clumsily written but i just think the 2.5 seconds of eye contact they shared in mockingjay part 1 was sexy (and also julianne's tweet about effie giving alma a haircut)

When Alma asks Effie to cut her hair, the woman agrees immediately, without question. It isn't surprising. She's always eager to be involved in a way that isn't _too involved,_ and that's not to mention the way she looks at Alma all the time – like she could use a lot of improvement, physically – or the several offers she's already made, giving unsolicited advice on everything from fashion to hair to clothing, complaints centered particularly around the dress code in District 13.

She isn't even the worst Capitolite who's ever been allowed past their walls. Alma can think of at least four others (the woman with skin dyed violet, the man with an orange and black striped goatee, the person with silver spikes embedded in their knuckles, the woman with a full set of sharp golden teeth in mimicry of Enobaria) who have given her considerably greater migraines than Trinket ever has, and that really is saying something. _Effie,_ at least, understands her position. She no longer has one. That seems to be something others struggle with more often than not, and while she barely has patience enough for Effie most days, she definitely never has patience for _them._

So of course it's Effie who she first thinks of when she decides that change is in order. It isn't just that, but the realization that her hair _has_ gotten too long, and the length is getting annoying, and finally Alma goes to her, and asks.

And of course Effie is so _very_ eager about it.

Effie hums thoughtfully by one ear, then sighs pitifully by the other, mumbling something about how thin and dry and sad Alma's hair is. Alma doesn't comment, even if something inside of her wants to reach up and slap away the hand that pokes and prods and pries. There's no mirror—she can't see what's being done to her, and that makes her as uncomfortable as the woman standing behind her does.

Effie had come to her first instead of the other way around, which is not a kind of behavior that Alma likes from anyone. She's looking over the script for one of the new propos to be approved when the cheerful tap-tapping comes at her door, and she knows exactly who it is when it happens. No one else would ever knock like _that._ Mostly, save for Plutarch on rare occasion, no one would ever knock at all because no one dares visit her while she's here, and most don't even know where her quarters are located. She stands from her desk, she opens the door, and then she's in the middle of her room watching Effie flutter about, talking about this and that and _oh, I'm just so happy you've finally come to your senses..._

She brought with her a little bag, bulging at the sides with whatever was inside, and Alma had immediately leapt at the chance to make her position clear.

“You are only cutting my hair. Do not even _think_ of doing anything else to it.”

Effie, minutes ago, hadn't been very happy about that. Now, she seems just fine, humming quietly under her breath as she cuts away another chunk of gray, something that Alma watches drop to the floor with the rest. Fingers trail gently along her shoulders, brushing away fallen strands of clipped hair, and she feels the pause when they graze the back of her neck too, skin-on-skin contact that doesn't have to be long for them both to freeze.

Alma isn't particularly fond of being touched, even accidentally, but the quick and nervous little flutter of Effie's fingers in the air by her head makes it clear that she feels the tension well enough on her own without Alma calling attention to it.

Alma lets the shiver the touch brings roll down her spine, marveling at the curious sensation. It doesn't last long.

“Are you finished?” She's careful to keep her voice perfectly even, focusing on the tone of it even though she isn't sure if it really matters in the end.

Effie huffs a little. “Not nearly,” she says, draws her fingers through Alma's hair, and even that makes her skin crawl with a sensation of being here and being touched and being felt and known, down to the texture of her hair. Nails slide along her scalp in the process, and they're short but painted, the same way Effie's face is bare—mostly—but still alien, in the way she's no longer a slave to the Capitol's whims but still has their brand, their behavior.

Alma trusts her despite this, trusts her enough to have her close to her throat with a pair of scissors in hand, because she knows the truth. She's loyal to the Rebellion. She's loyal to her President.

Alma closes her eyes for a moment, then opens them again. 

No.

Effie Trinket is loyal to Katniss Everdeen.

And that's enough, for now.

Effie smells faintly like a perfume she's certain she hasn't smelled before, something that captivates her thoughts in a cycle of where did she get it, and who did she get it from, and perhaps it's one of the new residents from District 1, who came here with an abundance of useless luxuries. 

“You have such lovely hair, you know. You could treat it a little better.” Effie's voice snaps her out of that cycle clean and quick, and Alma's disoriented by it, by the backhanded compliment and the shaded advice. She closes her eyes against the light, opens them again, folds her hands neatly in her lap and feels the bland texture of the jumpsuit under her fingers.

“I treat it fine,” she says coolly, although she isn't quite sure if that's the truth or not. In the Capitol she would have pink eyebrows and a wig gelled and sprayed into a tower that gave her a permanent crick in her neck, a corset to push her ribs in, platform heels that housed little goldfish inside like an aquarium.

In District 13, she washes her hair.

That's always been good enough for her—it's the way things should be, free of unnecessary waste and ridiculous frills.

Effie says nothing, but her little hum says everything. Disapproval, as if Alma cares about that.

“You wore an entire birdcage in your hair six years ago.” Alma isn't sure why she brings it up, only knows that she's suddenly thinking about it and then suddenly putting those thoughts into words. She remembers it: gilded gold bars threaded through a vibrant violet wig, that sat stacked like a curly tower, and in its center two bright magenta birds that idly sat and preened. Effie pauses, her pale fingers hovering by Alma's cheek. It makes her feel — unpleasantly, suddenly — like that hand is going to touch her there instead of grab another strand of hair to cut away at, so she tips her head to the side and looks up over her shoulder to watch her chosen stylist, who looks slightly dumbfounded.

“I had forgotten about that,” Effie says after a moment, and raises the scissors again. Alma looks back ahead at the silent gesture. “Yes, I did. It was all the rage back then, you know.”

“Were they frightened? The birds.”

“Of course not. They were very well trained. It was a _terrible_ weight, though. I couldn't turn my head for a week. I got rid of the whole thing. Even the wig. I couldn't get the...odor out of it. Birds do _not_ smell very pleasant, no matter how much perfume you put in their feathers.”

Alma wonders if she should be surprised about that, about the idea of it, borderline cruel by any decent person's standards (so not Capitol standards), putting perfume in a bird's feathers for no good reason except you can't stand the smell of birds you put in your own wig for show and applause. She isn't surprised.

She _is_ slightly disgusted.

It takes her a minute or two to realize that Effie has stopped cutting. She's trailing her fingers through her hair again and again, mindlessly, and the sensation is as disturbing as it is – something else. Something Alma doesn't really care to put a name to, not now and not ever.

“Are you finished now?” she asks.

Effie's hand freezes there, then drops away. She clears her throat, turning Alma's chair around to face her. She's beaming, satisfied, though there's a look in her eyes that's a little distant. That look is always there. Alma recognizes it well. She has no sympathy for it, though it is a striking difference from the Effie Trinket in all the vids, when she gives interviews or calls names for a Reaping, grinning and bright-eyed. Alma lets herself wonder, briefly, if it is a change or if it is something peeling away, a shell breaking open, and _this_ is the real Trinket, dull and hurt and sorry. “Yes," she chirps. "Beautiful."

Though she knows it must be at least part untruth, because Effie is not the sort of person to think her or her hair or anything else within the walls of District 13 _beautiful,_ it occurs to Alma that she doesn't actually remember the last time someone's said that about her – maybe never. And maybe that thought, that surprise shows on her face, because Effie's expression softens along with her proud smile and she slips a mirror into Alma's hands. She raises it, staring at her hair, cut shorter than she's had it in some time.

At once it makes her look both sharper and softer, certainly more severe. She knows enough to know that it'll go over well with the masses in following speeches. It's a subtle change, but perfectly timed for everything ahead, a sort of in-with-the-new-out-with-the-old statement, and Alma clears her throat, lowering the mirror when she realizes she's been staring at herself for longer than she likes staring at anything, especially when in the presence of company.

“Thank you, Miss Trinket,” she says, though she'd much rather dismiss her without a word and go back to looking over the propos.

Effie's eyes gleam warmly. They're still empty, somewhere inside, so the warmth feels more like a fake sun, a holoprojection. It's sincere, though, when her hands meet Alma's shoulders, and Alma doesn't even shake them off, doesn't even step away. “You're very welcome.”

“I'll be sure to call on you again,” Alma says, before Effie leaves, even though she isn't sure the woman would until dismissed.

(Alma never gets the chance to utilize Effie's talents again, of course, though neither of them know that then, and neither of them care after, because one is dead and the other – well, the other doesn't care, even though she might have once.)

“Absolutely,” Effie gushes, then glances downward, pointedly. “Perhaps we could do something about those nails of yours next time...”

_There's nothing wrong with my nails,_ Alma wants to say, but before she can, Effie is smiling and waving a hand, saying her goodbyes, stepping out of the room and soon disappearing around the corner.

She leaves the mirror behind. 

Alma picks it up, looks again. _Beautiful,_ Effie had called it, which is still a descriptor that makes her skin crawl and makes her want to scoff. It isn't beauty that looks back at her — it's a cold, stoic reflection, and it is exactly what she wants.

Changed, to match all the changes to come.

Victorious, to match all the victories to come.

Alma sets the mirror down again and closes her eyes, allowing herself a brief reprieve there in the aftermath, in the silence after Effie's departure. In particular she thinks about the feeling of those fingers drifting through her hair, a hand hovering by her shoulder, Effie's glittering smile and faint, faraway gaze.

Alma breathes in, breathes out, tucks the mirror away under her mattress to be returned at a later date, and gets back to work.


End file.
